Favours

An old short story I found. I think i wrote it last year. It made me laughing finding it again.
Enjoy.
-S.Jones


Marla bit into her turkey burger.
She was watching her weight.
She asked for light mayo and no onions, because onions clung to your breath and your fingers. Your toung and your fingers were always in a gambling position to be asked to do favours. Marla wanted to do favours. She had a shopping list in her front pocket. She poked it and watched the stiff fabric pop like a bottle cap. Shopping for grocery's were not a favour. She was not doing herself a favour. She was doing her wife a favor.
Marla, loved Rachel. Rachel was in a constant passionate heat for Marla. Marla felt a need to wade submissive towards Rachel's blistering horomones. For all she knew she was gender split and fucking impregnated her. Which wouldn't be bad. Just really weird. Like there are things you can laugh about and be happy dispite the situation, definately not one of them. Her walls were probabaly rough with callas from a lack of arousal before Rachel lit a candle stick and inserted the waxy base. Rachel had an obsession with fire. Marla first made love to Rachel infront of a fire place. Earlier on she thought this cliche, she now realized she was feeding Rachel's fetish. Which made her happy.
She was once asked in a 'would you rather game' if you would rather never have someone please you or never be able to please someone else.
She was unable to muster a honest answer. or a wholesome answer. but the question itself was debatable. an answer she felt more opinionated to say.
really, Marla was unhappy.
Marla was bisexual. Marla wanted to try something new.
Marla wanted to do favours.
Inexpensive. 10 minutes or less. Simple and efficient.
Like the burger drive through.
Marla was done her burger. She moved onto her fries.
She balanced one between the pouch of her lips and her finger tip.
She slid it in. Swallowed it. Whole.
Marla looked out her window. Kevin was putting out the flower and garden sales area in the parking lot of Rona. Kevin watered his flowers and and took photos of his cats in seasonal costumes. Kevin carried a costco card, a debit card, an emergency diabetes card, and a pepsi card in his wallet.
Kevin needed a favour.

take away for today - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_miHFxG1yuQ&feature=channel_page
this is who they have sex too.
looks a bit like jesus. but jesus probably grooves better.

Be Afraid

I have a close friend. Who has healed more wounds for me than she will ever know. And has exposed me to myself, without fear. But sometimes I am afraid for her. She follows a wave which has an luxuriously peaceful high and then a tragic low. In her deepest hollows I suppose there isn't much to say. I would like to hear and sort out her matters for her, but I am not her mother, and I am not her conscience. To be at conflict with ones own psyche is a confrontation that must be met. Without exterior characters trying to build ones own character. One can only find peace when they are able to find realism in their own issues and second guess their own opinions. When you create a smarter, more intelligent self beyond bones and skin and blood.
I love her. I don't think I've ever loved anyone else more than her. She is striking and captivating and inspiring and truly unscathed by culture. She patriotic of her own domain. She is lost in an era years beyond the one she was born in. One with class and dignity and chivalry and experiment. She is a never ending cycle of occasion, with a persona that never settles in one suit for too long. She is challenging and mocking and curious. She is morning noon and night and the time in between does not exist because she doesn't have the time for it. She breaths sweet simple one line melodies. Absolutely the most impossibly lost person I've ever met. But in that lack of, she is perfect. To her I say, if you're cutting with a knife the gentlest gesture you can give beaten by the bat end. Whether you return the strike with a counter blow means a few fist full of apprehentions hugging your curves. Both ends have bitter endings, both ends are open ended. Will he decide to cut you or force you. Every white limbo has a corner, but the colour spills often just a few paces from where you began to feel watched. Running makes you more obvious and walking is an easier target. So is standing. So you're fucked. The best thing to do now is not exists, but unfortunately you are made of matter, and until you blow space between your atoms you'll continue to feel. Fear is the most unacknowledged emotion. Not that we ignore it, we are aware of it, but we can't just hate it. Because we hate too much of what's necessity already.
Fear will help you. Let it build a scent. Let something hunt you. Listen to its hunger. Listen to it's thoughtlessness. Find it before it comes out.
Be afraid.

Take away for today: http://www.myspace.com/wheatiemattiasich

Listen to Sugarcane.

Shaking Hands

I've fallen in love with illustration.
There's a massive, translucent line or lagoon at odds with the incision between what we see and can communicate with, circumference's us, and how we exhibit and frame the physical things response to our acknowledgment, it's own language, and the manifestation of that through a picture. When one analyzes the two, you begin to see within this lagoon, not an abrupt laceration of the two sitting abreast the other, but rather an inconceivable blur as one becomes the next. It is in the blur where the breathing earths metaphysical characteristics evolve into something more cinematic and charismatic. Using ones extremities to lasso a ghost or an aura within ones self or an object. To then invite that to the page. To portray it senselessly as it does not affect our senses. Miraculous.
An artist is never fully acknowledged for their work because one never fully understands the artists motives. How they felt and what they saw. What is often more frustrating is when perhaps the picture portrays an idea that conflicts the artists own personal message. But then, art will always continue to be different for everyone as we are all approached by art differently. As we are all judged by people differently. In the art community you must be willing to be judged for your work, because your work will judge you. Art will judge you.

take away for today: inventive and standard setting.
Russian Ark: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J--TDEHizVA
Vassilis Zidianakis: http://www.atopos.gr/rest/english/index.html

Heaven told me it would hate me

Pouring a martini into a coffee mug is so satisfying. If the heat won't be there to warm you the burn will, and the familiarity of a toasty mug is complimentary. The comfort of the two together is enough milk ones way into addiction. Which is an issue i fear I'm battling currently. The mug makes it easier to drink, and far less casual. Casual would be with a stem attached to the bottom. Habit is an ikea mug, a zip up hoodie and Seinfeld. So i'm working my way into an illness, and it startles me, but not as intensely as say an addiction to tobacco would. I worry about the smell of cigarettes, i realize I'm not going to reek of alcohol on Monday morning. Perhaps I will one day. For now i enjoy fruity mixes and red wine. White wine tastes like liquid gravol. Sorry lovers.
And then there's the friends who smoke. No i don't know if i like to smoke with neighbours. I don't spin. I like spinning. It's wicked obvious as well. It billows. I speak 7 years pre current age. Sub socialistic. Unopinionated and horrifyingly simple with dialect. It's a mock of the sapience and a farce of my poise. I am unknowingly conveying the unornamented version of me. Though hard to say, is no one i would put a name behind. And still, I will continue to, in isolation, use. By myself my mind is macabre. For the rest of my life then I will continue to enjoy chilled wine and bread. Simple food. Soul food. An addiction to une vive.
I could hide this addiction. I could fuck this addiction so hard.

Take away for today: http://www.parasolmag.com/

lovely. free. mindful.